The board went up.
"Six minutes? Six?" Laurence González shouted at the fourth official, his voice sharp and filled with disbelief. The man in black held the illuminated board high above his head.
Laurence was already storming toward him, his tie flapping and hands waving animatedly. "Where are you getting six minutes? Where? We didn't waste time! They did!"
The fourth official remained unfazed. He kept his gaze straight ahead, unaffected by the fury.
Victor, ever the calm in the chaos, gently tugged Laurence back by the sleeve. "Laurence, don't lose it now," he whispered. "They're just trying to squeeze something out of this."
Laurence pointed up, as if appealing to the gods—or maybe just VAR. "You'll see! You bloody—" He caught himself, swallowed the rising anger, and took a couple of steps back, hands on his hips, chest heaving. It wasn't worth a red card.
The noise was overwhelming. A tidal wave of chants and whistles filled the grand cathedral of Spanish football.
94:12.
And Madrid were pushing everything forward. Sergio Ramos and Pepe were both in the box now, elbows raised and teeth bared, prowling like wolves. Casillas had moved up to the edge of the center circle, pacing, ready to pounce on any stray clearance and send it back in.
Ozil stood over the corner. His left foot sent the ball into the crowd like a blade slicing through silk.
Higuaín connected perfectly with a diving header.
But Sergio Aragoneses was already airborne, every bit of his thirty-five-year-old frame stretching to its limits. His glove just managed to touch the ball—barely—and deflected it wide.
A roar of disbelief erupted. The Bernabéu was on the verge of exploding.
The ball rolled loose, spinning toward the right wing.
And Neymar was already on the move.
The instant Aragoneses' hand made contact with the ball, Neymar sprang to life. The Brazilian lunged forward, seizing it in stride, his boots tearing through the grass.
Di María and Ramos pivoted in sync, racing after him, the crowd erupting in alarm.
But Neymar didn't bother trying to outrun them.
He didn't have to.
Before Ramos could launch into one of his bone-crushing tackles, Neymar sent a diagonal ball across the field, precise and deliberate.
Because Griezmann was already on the go.
He was sprinting like a man possessed, ten strides into his run before Neymar even struck the ball. His eyes were fixed on the pass, his body leaning forward with perfect balance.
Pepe tried to keep up.
He couldn't.
Griezmann was quicker. Lighter. Smoother. The years spent honing his movement, touch, and intuition—this was the payoff. This moment.
He slipped past the last defender with one deft touch, and suddenly it was just him and the goal.
Casillas came charging out. Wide stance. Arms raised.
One touch.
Then another.
He rolled the ball past Casillas' outstretched left leg.
The ball kissed the post.
And nestled into the net.
Silence.
Then a delayed explosion.
GOAL!
Real Madrid 0 – 3 Tenerife.
4–2 on aggregate.
The Tenerife bench erupted in celebration.
Victor soared into the air, his fists pumping with excitement. Kitoko was wrapped around the nearest person, not caring who it was. Aragoneses fell to his knees in the box, completely overwhelmed.
And Griezmann?
He ripped his shirt off and let out a primal roar toward the sky.
His hands clutched the Tenerife crest, then spread wide like wings as he dashed toward the away end, where the Tenerife fans—two thousand strong—were in a beautiful, chaotic celebration.
He dropped to his knees, sliding into their adoration, embraced by Neymar, Victor, and everyone else rushing to the corner flag.
And Laurence?
Laurence was off like a shot.
He sprinted the length of the touchline, his suit flapping behind him, eyes wide with exhilaration. He didn't care that he was the manager. He didn't care that the fourth official was already jotting something down. A warning, maybe a card. What did discipline matter to a man on the brink of making history?
"YES! YES!!" he shouted, his voice raw with disbelief and pride.
The Bernabéu fell silent.
No white scarves waving. No anthems ringing out. Just a stunned hush, pierced only by the ecstatic song of a blue island fanbase that was louder than the gods.
Up in the glassed-off VIP section, Mauro Pérez sat next to CD Tenerife's president, Miguel Concepción. The chairman's hands shook as he reached for his untouched wine. He hadn't taken a sip all match.
To their right, Florentino Pérez rose slowly from his leather chair. He maintained his composure, as always, but his smile was thin and strained. His jaw was clenched tight enough to crack stone.
Miguel didn't gloat. Instead, he turned to Mauro, his voice barely a whisper. "Your project… it's real."
Mauro kept his gaze fixed on the pitch. "I told you. Just give Laurence the space… and watch."
The referee didn't bother dragging things out. Madrid had given everything. Their final push had been beaten—by Aragoneses' glove, by Neymar's pass, by Griezmann's calm.
The whistle blew.
Full time.
Real Madrid—out of the Copa del Rey.
CD Tenerife—through to the semifinals.